Fire Help Me To Forget
by MonumentForTheDead
Summary: Memories are powerful tools, and some memories stay with us no matter how many lives we live, no matter how much we try to forget them. They are engraved in us, like fire. (Just an insight of what the correlation between Joan Clayton and Dr. Seward might have been if they had decided to explore that in the series. Art cover done by myself.)


**~Long author's note ahead!**

 **Hello my lovely folks! It's me, trying my first shot in this fandom!**

 **So I recently finished Penny Dreadful, and dear lord, this is definitely my favorite show in the entire existence. And although I – like the most of you – felt extremely disappointed with the absurdly rushed ending that was given to the series, I'm still grateful they did this show. And they at least tried to finish it, which I appreciate it. On that note, the thing I feel most frustrated about was the loose ends they left ESPECIALLY with the new characters that were introduced.**

 **And that brings me to Patti LuPone.**

 **What a blessing that was the decision of bringing this woman back to the show! She's absurdly marvelous, and I literally worship her. I actually just endured the Old West segments about Ethan because I knew that there were going to be scenes exploring Vanessa's relationship with Dr. Seward after it. I love everything about Dr. Seward AND Joan Clayton – mostly because of Patti – but also because they're both extremely amazing, captivating and delicately crafted characters. And it pains me to no end that they finished the series without the answer I was most desperate to know: was Dr. Seward really Joan Clayton? If so, then HOW? If not, then who was she? I wanted to know more about this woman, I wanted to see more scenes in which she interacted with Vanessa, I wanted less scenes focused on Ethan or Victor Frankenstein and more scenes exploring Vanessa's state of mind!**

 **So, with that frustration in mind, I decided to write this little fic, because I felt Dr. Seward needed a few more moments mourning Vanessa's death (she was the first to walk away from the funeral, for Christ's sake), and because this scene kept replaying on my head until I was forced to write it down (and also because I needed an answer, even thou my fanfic doesn't really answer things thoroughly, but anyway).**

 **The first segment of the fic features a song from Florence and The Machine called "Which Witch", because I think FATM is the perfect soundtrack for Penny Dreadful, but this song especially takes the cake.**

 **So without further ado, I hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

 _And it's my whole heart  
Weighed and measured inside_

How long would it take now, until her heart gave out completely and she would take her last breath? Would the pain still be there until the last minute? Would she still feel the heat of that girl's hands on her own, or would the feeling go away before she was gone? Well, that was a grim though. She didn't want that, not at all.

 _And it's an old scar  
Trying to reach it out_

She had lived enough… Done enough things in her lifetime. Things she regretted, things she wouldn't change, memories that she collected; each line of her face a story, each scar on her body a lesson.

 _And it's my whole heart  
Deemed and delivered a crime_

She always thought she would die alone; it was at least a bit unexpected to have someone on her side on her last moments, but it was certainly something welcomed. She had been forgotten to the world, tossed aside, hated, beaten down. To find someone who would stay with her felt like a blessing. Apparently God hadn't forgot her just yet.

 _I'm on trial, waiting till the beat comes out_

A peaceful death, that's all she asked for. But of course life wasn't that generous to her, despite giving her this girl that now ran towards the window in order to catch a glimpse of a furious mob coming towards her house. Well, if that was going to be the way, so be it. The girl protests, 'I'll stand them on my feet', she retorts, resolute.

 _Who's a heretic now?  
Am I making sense?_

The girl holds her hand as she descends the stairs, her legs wobbly and weak. She wants the girl to stay inside, lock the door, and protect herself. She demands it, but a twinge of her voice begs for the girl to obey. She doesn't. Of course she doesn't. She can see a ridiculous sense of heroism washed over the young woman's face, and for a moment she wants to slap her and tell her to come to her senses. She doesn't do it, instead she touches the girl's chest, she feels the scorpion's venom rushing through her veins along with her frantic heartbeat, she gazes into bright blue eyes before whispering.

'Be true'

 _Who's a heretic, child?  
Can you make it stick, now that I'm on trial?  
Waiting 'til the beat comes out_

She always knew she wouldn't feel fear when the moment of her death came. For all it mattered, it was a feeling more akin to relief than anything else, but a part of her just couldn't shake off the dread she felt for the girl standing next to her. God, please, don't let them hurt her. Please let them spare the girl…

 _I'm miles away, she's on my mind  
I'm getting tired of crawling all the way  
I've had enough, it's obvious  
And I'm getting tired of crawling all the way_

The pain she feels when a stone hits her forehead is greater than she could ever imagine. She feels a blind ache piercing her brain to a point where she couldn't see anything. The next thing she feels is a pair of hands yanking her away from the girl; away from the comforting warmth of her skinny hand.

Human cruelty has no limits – she thinks when she gazes at the fate reserved for her. She hears the girl's screams behind her, and her very soul wrenches painfully at the haunting sound.

 _And it's my whole heart  
While tried and tested, it's mine  
And it's my whole heart  
Trying to bleach it out  
And it's my whole heart  
Burned but not buried this time  
I'm on trial…_

Her wrists are chained with a pair of heavy and cold shackles; her feet barely touch the ground. She's facing the girl; her pale face frozen in a mask of utmost pain and despair. She can't figure out whether she feels sadness, fear or simple disappointment. She just wishes the girl was safe inside her house, not being exposed to these animals and their spite, not being able to see her like this.

Her body feels the shock of a wave of boiling tar being thrown at her. It burns her skin, it obscures her vision until her hawk-like eyes can see again. She focuses her attention on the girl; if that was the way she was going to die, at least she would go with the vision of someone beloved to her engraved in her memory.

 _I'm not beat up by this yet  
You can't tell me to regret  
Been in the dark since the day we met  
Fire, help me to forget  
_  
Flames engulf her body with abominable speed. It hurts, it destroys layer after layer of her very being, and she just can't remember when she stopped feeling the pain of it all. The girl's eyes are the only thing in her mind. Engraved, forever.

 _Chained and shackled,  
All unraveled,  
It's a pity.  
Never to return,  
But I never learn.  
Chained and shackled,  
All unraveled,  
It's a pity.  
Say I won't return,  
But I never learn,  
It's a pity…_

* * *

Dr. Florence Seward shot up from her bed, startled. A chilling layer of sweat enveloped her as she breathed heavily.

She tried to steady her breathing and get a hold of her surroundings; a quick glancing to the window indicated that it was breaking dawn, and the sky was just starting to turn from dark to light grey. She took the pocket watch she left at her nightstand and confirmed it; it was exactly five in the morning.

The alienist closed her eyes, but quickly opened them again in horror as she saw the flames from her nightmare burning at the back of her eyelids. She got up from the bed, deciding that trying to go back to sleep would only torture her more. She enveloped her figure in a thick woolen robe, shivering as her bare feet touched the cold wooden boards of her bedroom. She felt sick, like a part of her had just been exposed and she couldn't do anything to stop.

It was the trauma from that horrible night, no doubt; she thought with herself as she sat in the armchair close to the window and lit a cigarette. Since that night she wasn't able to lie down and close her eyes without being haunted by demonic figures, coming at her with vertiginous speed. The bullets of her pistol never enough to kill all of them. Her sleep never peaceful enough to leave her rested.

She never had the nightmare about the flames eating her body before, and it felt strangely out of place and unrelated to that night, but then again, it was the trauma; and trauma manifested itself in many different and unpredictable ways.

If asked about the reason why she had tested and refuted all her beliefs in order to go on an absurdly heroic quest to save a patient, she wouldn't be able to give an answer. She didn't know what frustrated her more; the fact that she so willingly and selflessly sacrificed herself to save Vanessa Ives, or the fact that the effort was all for naught, and now Vanessa lied in a coffin, six feet under the ground.

How she had let herself being carried into that situation? Why?

Vanessa had once said to her that she only did her job to collect patients. She had retorted it was to cure them, and the girl had questioned if there was any difference. Perhaps there wasn't any difference after all, perhaps she wanted to cure and save Vanessa as much as she wanted to collect her. The thought of it made her feel a mixture of feelings ranging from helplessness for being unable to cure her, to a painful sorrow as she missed the girl, like she just had lost someone that always belonged to her.

She shivered again, this time from the discomfort that the memory of Vanessa brought her.

She tried to remember her dream, traumatic as it was, maybe she could find an answer of why she was feeling that way… After all it had been weeks since she escaped that nightmarish night; alive but tormented, and although she still had bruises and cuts scattered around her body as a reminder and proof that she wasn't going completely insane, she tried to heal herself every day, and little by little, things would start to get better.

She forced her mind to remember, but her thoughts were as foggy as the London afternoon.

There was an old house, not well kept, but clearly habited. There were things hanging from the ceiling, too many things, actually… She couldn't remember what, but knew, from the top of her skepticism that they meant protection, in a way. There was a fireplace in the middle of the room, a large cauldron on it, and some stairs leading to an upper bedroom. She was there, dressed in layers of ragged and worn out clothes, and there was a girl.

Skinny, frail girl, with dirty raven hair; Dr. Seward remembered her from the dream, and her screams, her tears as she was eaten by the fire. She knew; she _felt_ deep inside herself a feeling of affection for that girl that she couldn't possibly explain. That mysterious fragile being that walked around the house with the uncertain steps of an apprentice, with long, delicate hands, that managed the food in the cauldron, pale lips that smiled at her, and deep, unsettled blue eyes that…

That girl…

" _Vanessa_ "Florence murmured to herself, finally realizing her cigarette had burned down almost completely and her eyes stung with unshed tears.

So in the dream she couldn't be anyone else besides Joan Clayton.

Vanessa had told her about that woman; a reclusive outcast who performed abortions and was deemed a witch by the people who despised her. Vanessa's relationship with a woman like that didn't surprise her; the girl was a peculiar figure, and the correlation she had established between Joan Clayton and herself wasn't surprising either. Maybe they looked alike, maybe their voices sounded similar, nonetheless the girl automatically made the connection in order to cling to something, _someone_ that was familiar to her. Florence had seen this before, it was absolutely logical, and maybe she had – unconsciously – made the connection as well, resulting in a dream in which she was Joan Clayton, living in a solitary cottage with a very unkempt Vanessa Ives.

Even though she never had a dream that detailed before… Even though she never had dreams that felt so real in her whole life… Even though the dream felt more like a memory than an actual dream…

It was logical; everything had a logical explanation, and if she knew herself, she would dig out for that explanation like her life depended on that.

The reasons for that dream could be many; she missed the girl, she wanted to be helpful for her, she wanted to see her again, even if it was just by a dream… A dream that turned into a horrid nightmare as soon as she saw herself being dragged away, shackled and burned alive. But her subconscious worked in ways even her couldn't understand, and she remembered mulling over Joan's death for days as soon as Vanessa told her of her demise. She had broken one her rules and let herself get personally affected by one of her patients. Now she endured the consequences.

At least that was what the logical part of her screamed, and she repeated the explanation over and over again until she could manage to believe herself. But _something_ at the back of her mind wouldn't stop scratching its way to the surface, like the cut she had on the side of her face that she couldn't stop rubbing involuntarily.

That thing… That nagging feeling she couldn't figure out what was, that thing that made her heart feel heavy, that thing that slowly, almost reluctantly emerged from the depths of her mind, that thing that gradually revealed itself as three very simple words. Words that took the air from her lungs, and made the blood drain from her face.

A memory.

An actual memory she didn't recall having until that morning; something she knew her mind would never invent; something that came to the surface with such intensity she refused to refute and doubt it; a memory that didn't belong to her, or at least she thought it didn't.

She bent over her armchair and cried.

* * *

Florence Seward reprimanded herself for being unable to follow her own advice. She tried to stick to her daily routine and attend to her patients the best she could, but despite her best efforts she found herself going to the graveyard at the end of the day. She had sworn she wouldn't go back there ever again; the memory was too painful, still too recent for her to touch.

She stood in front of Vanessa's grave, a little bouquet of white roses still held firmly in her hands; she squeezed the stems unconsciously and felt the thorns sink to her skin, but, painful as it was, she still needed something to ground her to reality. She took a deep breath, still not certain how – or even if – she would externalize the thoughts that were storming on her head throughout the whole day.

She finally decided to put the roses down – a silly belief – as she would tell herself; the dead didn't care about gifts, there were no point in adorning their graves with beautiful flowers if they were unable to see it. This though brought a surge of painful feelings across her body; she wondered if Vanessa would like the flowers… Of course she would; Florence knew the girl liked beautiful things, and she knew Vanessa liked to dress to draw the eye. Maybe adorning her grave would somehow be a way to make the girl look beautiful again. The thought itself felt wrong in the Doctor's mind, like she was dressing Vanessa like she was an infant who wasn't able to choose her own clothes just yet.

She knelt in front of her grave, not caring about the humid grass and the dampness that seeped through the fabric of her skirt, nor the fact that her very bruised knees protested against the contact they made against the ground. She ignored the wind that shook the leafs from the high trees above them, and ignored the promise of rain the afternoon brought. She focused solely on Vanessa's name engraved in the stone in front of her, remembering the girl's blue eyes so full of pain, her ever so furrowed brows, and ever so troubled expression. She focused on that mental picture until she could imagine the girl in front of her, instead of the unchanging stone grave. She pictured Vanessa smiling at her; somehow she imagined her late patient would be happy to see her there.

" _Miss Ives… Vanessa."_ She sighed, choosing a more informal way to address her _"I… I hope you are okay, wherever you are. I miss you… So does everybody, I'm sure"_

She cursed herself for rambling and being unable to find the words to describe what she was feeling, but the Vanessa in her imagination smiled at her again, so she quieted herself and took a deep breath before continuing.

" _Sometimes I still catch myself doubting all that happened that night… I'm a silly old woman, aren't I? How could I still doubt things when I saw them right in front of me?_

 _Sometimes… I wonder that if I had believed them sooner things would be different. Would you still be here with us if I believed you the first time you said you knew me? Would I be able to help you more if I genuinely tried to remember you from a past life I lived? Would you be actually here, smiling at me, instead of just being in my imagination, if I hadn't been so skeptical with you, all the time?!"_

Florence stopped when a deep aching sob emerged from her throat; her tears fell freely down across her cheeks as she cradled her face in her hands. The girl's illusion disappeared in front of her as her vision got blurred with her tears. A passionate, primeval need to have Vanessa there with her took over, and her mind flooded with scenarios in which she hugged the girl, took her hands and felt the warmth of them, looked at her in the eyes and actually saw the life blooming out of her. Anything… Anything to suppress the memories of her lifeless body being carried away by Ethan Chandler, or the painful tears Vanessa had shed on her office, or the dark, long forgotten memory she had of the girl's screams which begged for mercy when she was burned alive.

Past and present mingled together in a terrorizing, feverish dance of mental pictures, and those words… Those three damned words that plagued her and only served as a confirmation of what Vanessa had always tried to convince her practically begged to be said out loud. She tried to speak again but her voice came out strangled between her sobs.

" _I know now what I should have known before… I knew you, I always knew you, Vanessa. My dear girl…"_

She stopped, gazed at the grave, the white roses, and the raven haired girl in her mind that now cried along with her. She spoke the three words as if they were a prayer; a longing memory, a proof of love.

"… _My little scorpion."_

* * *

 **So, that's it! I hope you all enjoyed it! If any of you guys have an insight of what the correlation between Joan and Dr. Seward might have been, please leave a review. I need theories and different points of view hahaha. (Also, you can drop a review saying what you thought about the fic :D that would be nice too!)**

 **Anyway, feel free to PM me too, if you want!**

 **Thank you so much for reading!**


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